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A TALE OF 



f^El^lJck^^y I^OLi[N!TAI[NlS. 




Rv MARIOX STUART CAXX. 



PRINTED AT THI^ fiEPUliLICAN JOB EO03IS, 
8CKANTON, PA. 

1S8-I. 


/. 


« 



TO 


m’iUiain li. SUu’hall, jv., 


WHOSE SIJsCERE FRIENDSHIP WILD EVER P>E THE 
3IUST CHERISHED AMONG A HOST OF PLEASANT 
KENTUCKY 3IE3IORIES, THIS TALE IS AFFECTION- 
ATELY INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 


Copyriijhtcd ISS/^, by Marion Stuart Cann. 
All rights reserved. 


A TALE OF 


CHA.PrERI. 

AT JOHN AMBURST'S MILL. 

There is a deep, narrow gorge between the 
hills, where Skidd’s Branch empties into the 
Chatter ; and the yellow rock, that underlies 
the mountains, has been shattered by convul- 
sive sighs which heaved the earth’s bosom 
years ago Amid the jagged rocks, wrought 
into a thousand shapes by the whimsicalities 
of centuries’ storms, the two streams mingle, 
and thick forest, dark, fern-bound glens and 
trailing vines that now clutch some sharp 
horn of the sandstone, and now cling by some 
fantastic root, coiling and delving wherever 
a crevice gives passage to its fibres, watch over 
the meeting waters. 

Here the transient February sun touches 
the hills with purple, and the heaven-born 


4 


On SJcidd^s Branch. 


arbutus, lifta its pure petals amid the snow; 
and here, too, the sweet bud swells, and later 
on, the rhododendron offers nectar to the gods 
from its chalice of blushing innocence; and, 
still later, the fox grapes, purple in the 
autumnal sun until winter reaps the vintage 
amid the rock-bound desolation of the hills. 

Just why John Amburst should build a mill 
here, nobody ever knew. To be sure, there 
was arable land in the sparsely settled b Dt~ 
toms across the river, but nobody had ever 
thought of raUing corn there. The nearest 
neighbor, who lived ten miles back from “the 
Branch,” allowed of the mill, that “there 
wan’t no use fur it.” Nor as a matter of fact, 
did there seem to be; for during five months 
of the year “Skidd’s Branch” only existed 
through courtesy, for three months it was 
“most ways froze up,” and the rest of the 
time, so subject was it to the sudden rises of 
spring and fall, that milling was vary uncer- 
tain. 

These facts, well attested as they were, 
did not seem to deter John Amburst in the 
least; nor was he influenced by the pj^otests of 
such of the mountaineers as came his way. 
In that simple directness which belongs to 


On Skidd^s Branch. 


5 


men of his type, he remarked to Bill Skyles, 
the logger, that “he gutssed he knowed his 
own biz/* and, as Skyles had nothing with 
him but an ax, he acquiesced to the proposi- 
tion, and the building of the mill went on. 

It was not an elaborate structure, this mill 
of John Amburst; but in those early days it 
was considered a marvel of ingenuity, be- 
cause of both its architectural and mechanical 
simplicity. 

Its builder selecied a spot where he could 
get a fall of ten feet to the river, and there 
laid his foundation of rough stone from the 
branch. 

Then he scored the rafters and framed in 
the mill. 

The dam was next built. It was a crib of 
logs and sandstone rubble, and, later on, the 
unresting wheel was put in place, and throw 
ing out its diamond jets of water, it sent the 
saw teeth through the great chestnut logs. 
The mill was closed iu, and the atone attuned 
its whirr to the fret of the saw. To this 
primitive machinery was added a rude “hand 
I>olter,” and then, as John Amburst was 
Able both to crack the corn, and reduce it to 


6 


On SJciM^ s Branch. 


a coarse meal, the exigencies of milling in 
the Kentucky mountains were met. 

All this was twenty years ago, and the mill 
and the miller’s house have both long since 
lost their fresh wood color; moss has grown 
on their roofs, and the rough hewn timbers 
have been alternately bleached with the sum- 
mer sun and grayed by the winter flaw. 

From his advent at the “Branch,” few men 
were on good terms with John Amburat; and, 
so it was that for many years, whispers went 
around that he was net dependent upon the 
mill alone for a living. But, if he had other 
resources, it never appeared to slack his in- 
dustry ; nor did it ever seem that he had ul- 
terior motives in building his mill in so deso- 
late a spot as the mouth of Skidd’s Branch. 

Then there was no Mrs. Amburst—only Pol- 
ly. To be sure she lived to all intents and 
purposes as Mrs. Amburst; but she was only 
Polly, after all, and the neighborhood knew 
it. But whatever shock this may have given 
to the community— if neighbors living ten and 
twelve miles apart, and seeing one another 
once a fortnight can be called a community — 
had died away long ago so that gossip awoke 
afresh, when Helen Amburst came on the 


On Shield's Branch. 


7 


scene/ She was unlike many of the moun- 
tain lassies, both in beauty and bearing. To 
use the verdict of Bill Skyles, who has be - 
come an oracle since the mill was built, she 
was “too rich for his blood.” 

John Amburst said that since her birth she 
had been living with an aunt ; the girl said 
nothing. She seemed melancholy, and soon 
looked frail as the delicate anemones that 
grew on the cliffs above the old mill. He 
frowned down all inquiring looks, and kept 
her under rigid surveillance, and thus it was 
that, after she had been there a few months , 
gossip died put ; though her presence and per • 
sonnel always wooed speculation among the 
miller’s customers. 

Such, in brief, is the story of the mill up to 
the time when Edward Darnley came up the 
bridle-path, along the frozen Chatter, and 
knocked at the rude, weather-beaten, oaken 
door. Amburst opened it, and received the 
stranger with a show of hospitality . He was 
accustomed to entertain whatever wayfarer 
might find his house. The young man’s calm, 
gray eyes seemed to light with a speculative 
ray, as he told Amburst how he was looking 
for timber tracts ; and whether the latter was 


8 


On ShidWs Branch. 


satisfied with the scrutinizing glance he gave, 
or whether his curiosity needed other oppor- 
tunities for satisfaction, it would have teen 
hard to read, in the rough greeting he gave, 
as he brought in Da-nley’s saddle bags, and 
led his horse to the barn. 

This was while the snows were deep, and 
the Branch was a roadway to the logging 
camps, where the sturdy mountaineers had 
been chopping for three months of hard win- 
ter weather. Darnley visited all of these and 
studied the geography of the region until he 
could dispense with the services of John Am- 
burst ; a fact which deprived that worthy of 
a dollar a day guide fees, and much apparent 
satisfaction. 

During these latter days, however, the 
young man had been occupied indoors, osten- 
sibly writing contracts, a work which kept 
him near Helen, in front of the fire in the 
wide chimney. Polly “low’d he writ mos’ as 
powerful slow as the gal peeled taters,” a 
simile over which both smiled and looked 
conscious. But this was only before Polly, 
who was too little accustomed to young peo- 
ple to understand how much they said in a 
few words. 


Oil Skidd^s Branch. 


9 


With John Amburst, it was different. Be- 
fore him they looked little and said leas. 

During the week that had elapsed since he 
dispensed with John Amburst as a guide, 
Darnley had noticed one peculiarity in his 
host's behavior. Whenever the young man 
remained at the mill, Amburst did the same ; 
when he returned at evening, his horse worn 
with a hard day's travel, Amburst came back 
a little later with his horse in the same condi- 
tion. Once, when Darnley had started out 
for the day, he was taken sick, and came back 
before noon ; Amburst returned also, yet 
neither spoke of the coincidence. 

The cold snap had moderated during the 
past two days, and, as the light faded from 
the hills Darnley stood in front of the mill 
smoking . 

‘Ther’s goin' to be er thawr," said Amburst 
coming up. 

“It looks so, and I think I will go day 
after to-morrow, if we don't have a freshet." 

“Have yer found out what yer come fur?" 
asked Amburst significantly. 

“I think I have. " 

“Yes, yer’ve been to all the camps hain't 


10 


On SJddcTs Branch. 


yer? I reckon yer have,” and after closely 
watching the effect of his words, the miller 
gave his guest a malevolent frown, and went 
into the house. 

When Dirn'ey turned, he saw Helen stand- 
ing in the door, and her face bore a look of 
anxiety. As she answered his salutation, he 
noticed a constraint in her manner, which 
was not habitual, and when she spoke, her 
voice trembled with concealed emotion. 

That night he vainly wooed sleep. During 
the evening he had been unable to fathom the 
change in Helen's manner, which he fancied 
would have been tenderly pathetic, had not 
the presence of a third person restrained them 
both. Something in the girl’s troubled look 
kept him pondering, until long after the house 
was quiet. 

Toward morning, he dropped into a fitful 
slumber that was disturbed by dreams op- 
pressive with that awful, undefined dread 
which, though accompanied with the con- 
sciousness that it is but a high^^^mare, sends 
cold sweat to the brow, and leaves the 
strongest of us unnerved. From such a 
dream he awoke with a start. It was intense- 


On ShidiVs Branch, 


11 


ly dark, and he was filled with a presenti- 
ment of evil. 

A stealthy step was sounding in the room 
below. Darnley heard it approaching the 
foot of the rude half ladder that led up to the 
loft, where he lay. Then came foot falls on 
the staircase, and, in the darkness, he felt the 
presence of some one in the loft. 

Outside were the voices of the night. The 
wind sighed through gaunt trees, and 
branches creaked against the roof. He strained 
hia eyeballs to pierce the blackness, and 
thought he could distinguish a still blacker 
mass that was moving toward him. The 
regular breathing of the sleepers below was 
audible, as was, too, the beating of his own 
heart, yet the silence was oppressive. 

All at once there was a cough in the room 
below; it was Helen’s voice; he knew it. 

Another, and still another followed, and the 
noise relieved the stillneEs. 

It did more; he saw the crouching figure, 
which had become more distinct, as his eyes 
grew accustomed to the darkness, slowly re- 
treat to the ladder; and then there came a 
faint, care muffled step, and the mass of shad* 


12 


On SMdiVs Branch. 


ow disappeared into the deeper blackness that 
surrounded the rude stairway. 

Morning dawned dark and lowering. Heavy 
leaden clouds hung low over the hilltops, and 
the air was damp and murky. 

When Darnley descended, breakfast was 
ready, and John Amburst stood with his back 
to the fire, to nod a grim good morning, to his 
visitor. Darnley sat in front of the blaze 
after the meal was dispatched. Helen was 
near him; after a moment she took a letter 
from her bosom . 

“Here is something you dropped, Mr. Darn- 
ley,” she said, handing it. 

He thanked her, and was about to put it in 
his pocket when an almost imperceptible look 
from the girl arrested his uplifted hand . He 
glanced at Helen; her eyes were fixed on the 
envelope, and instinctively, his sought the 
same object. 

On the back of the letter were written the 
•words: “Go Home.” 

As he gazed at her in mute inquiry, the girl 
<5lasped her hands as if imploring him to flee, 
and her look of apprehension told him of 
tome impending danger. In a few seconds he 


On Skidd^s Branch. 




comprehended her meaning. The answer 
which his q lestions of the night before had 
failed to elicit had come; and half an hour 
later his bill was paid and he was saying 
‘‘good-bye.” 

Helen gave him her hand, and, in the warm 
pressure, which accompanied his conventional 
thanks for her kindness, she read his real 
thanks —perhaps more. 

Then he went away. 

John Amburst had viewed the young man’s 
departure with evident displeasure ; and ten 
minutes after Darnley’s horse had gone up the 
ravine, he took his gun from its place, scaled 
the clif[ by a ragged path, and disappeared in 
the undergrowth. 

Helen watched him from the door ; her face 
was shaded with a look of apprehension. 

When the tangled laurel that overhung the 
c’iif s brow hid the miller’s form from view, 
she turned her eyes slowly down the Branch, 
and saw a man approaching. He was a tall, 
well made fellow of about twenty five, and 
his lithe figure and erect carriage gave one an 
impression of courage, so that, ih spite of his 
rough suit of coarse jeans, he was not unpre- 
possessing. 


14 


On SkuhVs Branch. 


As he came up to the mill door, he rested 
his gun against the lintel with a familiar 
“Howde.” 

“ How do you do, Connie?” answered 
Helen. 

'‘Oh, middlin’. I reckoned yer’d be with 
that ’ere city chap; whar is he?” 

“He has gone.” 

“I ’low’d he’d stay till the thaw anyway.” 

“I feared he would, myself.” Helen un- 
consciously put an accent on the word that 
made her color slightly. Connie interpreted 
it as a favorable sign and continued more 
warmly: 

“You’d a felt bad, if you’d a know’d 
how I war longin’ fur to see you alone agin. 
I was skeered that yer mought be so taken up 
with him you’d forgit one o’ yer friends.” 

‘ ‘No, Connie, believe me, I shall never for- 
get you, you have been too kind for that.” 

The young mountaineer’s face glowed with 
pleasure, as he took the white hand she held 
out. 

For a moment the girl was deep in thought, 
and her large haa^l eyes had a far-away look, 
then they lighted with resolution as she said, 


On Skidd' s Branch. 


15 


*‘Now I have one more favor to ask, will you 
do it?” 

“That I will ” 

She looked keenly into hi« face for a mo- 
ment to see if he were deceiving her, then she 
said: “Go up the ravine as fast as you can, 
and tell Mr. Darnley to come back and go 
down by the liver. He will never get through 
up there. Tell him I said so, and, Connie, 
not a word to anybody. ” 

“What fur?” he questioned in a tone that 
implied both surpiise at the request, and 
somewhat of pique that she betrayed so much 
anxiety concerning the stranger. 

“Because yon are my friend.” The soft 
eyes were pleading now; and ^ yet so trustful 
in their appealing that the young man was 
reassured. 

Without another word Connie took his gun 
and walked rapidly up the ravine. As he 
went, he pondered over the errand that the 
girl had given him. 

“She don’t want no harm to come to him 
anyway,” he thought. “I don’t see no cause 
fur her bein’ skeert, but there shan’t, no 
how, not if I kin help it. No, sir, jes fur her 
sake.” 


16 


On SkidiVs Branch. 


With this in his mind, he pressed up the 
branch. 

Meanwhile Darnley had left the ravine,, 
and was trying to make a short cut over the 
mountain. The events of the night before 
were in his mind, and, though only half sus- 
pecting the real facts, after Helen’s mute 
though impassioned warning, he felt that the 
more distance he put between the mill and 
himself, the better. He distrusted the pro- 
priety of pursuing the route which he had 
announced to the miller would be his, and 
forcing his horse to struggle up a steep and 
broken path that led toward the rough table- 
land that shut in the ravine, sought for a 
short cut over the hills that loomed up in the 
misty west. 

The wood was filled with underbrush and 
trailing vines tangled the laurel among fallen 
logs and slippery rocks, half concealed in the 
drifted snow ; and, as the trail that led to the 
Shiner was concealed, his progress was very 
slow. Moreover, it had now commenced to 
rain, and the mist that rose with the sudden 
change of temperature confused him even 
more. Thus wet and bewildered, he lost his 
way; and after two or three hours of vain en- 


0^1 SkidiVs Bravch. 


17 


deavor, gave up all hope of shortenicg his 
journey, and devoted his energies to once 
more finding the ravine road that Le had 
abandoned eailier in the day. 

Thus it was that Helen’s plan, and Connie’s 
effort, to bear her meiEsage were bi fflad. The 
latter had hurried up the ravine for several 
miles, but founi no trace of Darnley, and, un- 
able to execute his commission, had passed 
on his way hours before the object of his 
search led his horse down the path into the 
ravine once more, and, mountirg the weary 
animal, struck toward the head of the Big 
Blew. 

The rain now poured in torrents and ragged 
clouds hung over the brows of the sand atone 
cliffs that walled in the Slew. The ravine was 
scarcely a hundred feet wide, and at either 
base of its steep walls was heaped a jagged 
talus of shattered rock that had been separ- 
ated by the frosts of countless winters , These 
varied in s’ze from that of a stage coach to a 
man’s head, and had been wrought into all 
sorts of curious shapes by the action of the 
water that flowed through this drain from the 
higher levels to the southwest. But now the 
identity of these masses was lost by the drifts 


18 


On SkidcVs Branch. 


of snow that had buried them fcr three months, 
and only here and there jailed irregular 
points above the earth yellowed mass that 
was slowly disappearing under the warm rain. 

The bottom of the Blew was covered with 
muddy water that increased in volume every 
minute. Even now, following the rapid de* 
acent of the gulley that in summer contained 
hut a tiny thread of trickling moisture, the 
springtide was marmuriag threats of a moun- 
tain torrent, and the turbid waters dashed 
over the fetlocks of Darnley’s horse, as the 
animal picked his way among the projecting 
rocks. 

The rain fell still faster and the air became 
more charged with mist. A curtain of fog 
fell to the bottom of the ravine but a few feet 
ahead, and the water poured out from the 
melting snow, as if it had been squeezed like 
a sponge. 

Above the roar of the rain and the hoarse 
gurgle of the torrent that was now up to the 
boise’fi knees, he heard the dullcrash of falling 
tre s and the loosening of masses of ice and 
reck from the escarpment of the cliffs above- 
now deadened by distance, now close at hand. 
From every seam of the yellowish rocks came 


On ShidcT s Branch. 


19 


streams of dirty water, and the snow sank 
away between the rubble that bounded the 
pass. 

Amass of ic3 and snow, that bore on its 
Boiled bosom, branches and fragments of bark, 
tumbled into the chasm a few feet ahead of 
Darnley, and his horse wheeled in fright so 
suddenly that its rider was thrown clear of the 
animal, which slipped to its knees among the 
rocks. 

This simple accident probably saved his life. 

As Darnley’s head went down, there blazed 
from the mist ahead, a sheet of flame, and a 
bullet whistled harmlessly over the prostrate 
man, and flattened itself against the cliff 

lu an instant Darnley recovered his feet; 
and, drawing his pistol and flringa single shot 
at tbe flgure dimly outlined in the mist, he 
retreated hastily through the rising waters. 

His assailant did not follow, but disappeared 
in an angle of the rock . 

Darnley’s flight was not by any means an 
easy one. Toward the foot of the Slew the 
torrent was now waist deep, and he was driv- 
en to the rubble at the base of the cliffs for a 
footing, where with much difficulty he man- 
aged to pick his way, from rock to rock, until 


20 


On Skidd^s Branch, 


by four o*clock, he had reached the mouth of 
the ravine, and stood on the banks of the 
8 woolen creek into which it emptied. 

To cross was impossible, for the narrow 
stream was swift as a mill race ; yet to remain 
was equally unsafe. 

After a moment’s survey of the boiling^ 
branch, he plunged into the inundated under- 
brush that fringed the narrow strip of bank 
between the creek and the cli.iS, and struggled 
toward its head waters in hope of a ford. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE crow’s nest. 

From the point where Skidd’s Branch emp- 
ties into the river, for twenty miles back, there 
is a constant succession of bold, much erod- 
ed hills, connected by narrow plateaux, which 
are ravined with canyons like the one just de- 
scribed . The hills themselves are quite steep 
and at the top there is frequently a ridge 
scarcely wide enough for a mountain road. 
Furthermore these ridges run in every possi- 
ble direction, and, hence it is, that the ravines 
which form the drainage of the country, un* 
dergo all sorts of turnings and windings. 


On Skidd^s Branch. 


21 


These gorges, are, for the most part, in sand- 
stone, which resists the disintegrating influ- 
ences of frost and water but slightly; but 
rarely, the cave limestone, which forms the 
lower member of the rock group here, is cut 
into, and, in such instances, most singular 
formations are the result. The shelving cliffs 
of sandstone that shut in the narrow winding 
passages for a mile or two, disappear and the 
ravine expands into an amphitheatre of pre- 
cipitous gray lime rock, at the base of which 
is the mouth of some subterranean stream 
that has its origin in the sink holes on the 
forest-covered plateau bounding the chasm. 
The ravines have been worn by the water 
from there subterranean streams during cen- 
turies, and as they have gradually deepened 
hive left the caves superposed like the stories 
of a house; the openings that once served as 
the outlet for the waters, now being many 
feet above the bottom of the ravine. Where 
these streams have cut deep beds, too, the 
rocks are overgrown with evergreen trees and 
shrubs Spruce, pine, and holly, mingle with 
the hickory, poplar, gum and ash ; laurel and 
Thododendroa thrust their twisted branches 
^mid the larger growths, and ivy, running- 


22 


On Skidd’ s Branch. 


oak and vines bind the whole into a thicket 
that is almost impenetrable . 

Facing such a chasm was the Crow’s Nest. 
The main opening to the cave was about fifty 
feet above the bottom of the ravine, or mid- 
way to the top of the precipitous rocks that 
formed the amphitheatre into which the Lit- 
le Slew led. In front of this opening ran 
ledge of rock , several feet wide, and extend- 
ing around the horse-shoe shaped wall like Sr 
balcony. Access was to be had to this narrow 
gallery only from the cave, and the 
mouth of the tortuous passage that led 
to the Crow’s Nest was several hun- 
dred feet down the ravine, well con^ 
cealed in a jagged niche of rock over which 
the matted grape vines hung like a curtain. 
The Little Slew debouched into a wider one, 
the Big Slew, and this, in turn, carried the 
waters from the amphitheatre into Skidd’e 
Branch. Both ravines were narrow and 
winding, and the Little Slew was well nigh 
impassable, even in summer. It was barely 
fifty feet wide and changed its direction 
among the abrupt rocks a dczen times before 
it brought the explorer in sight of the Crow’s 
Nest, 


On Shield^ s Branch. 


23 


At the time Darnley was threading his te- 
dious way among the wet rocks of the Big 
Slew, all was activity in the Nest. Prom an 
opening above the main entrance, went a col- 
umn of thin, blue smoke to mingle with the 
gray mists of the low-hanging clouds, and 
within fires were burning and torches flaring. 
Near the entrance a tall mountaineer with a 
broad-brimmed hat from which the rain 
dripped to his shoulders in little black streams 
walked on the parapet. His double barreled 
shot gun was thrown in the hollow of his left 
arm, and around his shoulders he held a rub- 
ber blanket like a Bedouin’s mantle. He 
paced the ledge with the regularity of a sen- 
try, save that he picked his way carefully 
over the loose fragments of rock on the gal- 
lery, as if he feared to make a noise and from 
time to time his eyes went scrutinizlngly 
over the chasm below . 

Within the scene was wierd. The gray 
light penetrated the rocky opening but fee- 
bly, and was varquished by the smoky, 
red glare of the pitch pine torches ere it 
had more than touched the blackened 
arches that formed the vaulted ceiling. The 
cavern was low and wide and stretched away 


On Skidd's Branch. 


24 


on every side over bsnches of rock that were 
rounded by the action of the waters. The 
of these benches was nearly level, and 
like the cave itself, sloped gently down to 
ward the black recesses the torchlight did not 
penetrate. On either side could be seen the 
entrsnces to countless crazy galleries that 
rambled away Into the black heart of the hills 
above, and at the end of one of these there 
was a faint suggestion of daylight, as if the 
sunshine had once ventured down there and 
been strangled by some monster that inhabit- 
ed the cave, and now only its ghost came 
back to haunt the place . 

Now and then a waving flame would 
send a cohort of red rays to invade one 
of these recesses, and then would be 
revealed a grotesque array of gnomes 
and ghouls carved in spectral gypsum, 
or a long pendant of hibernating bats 
outlined against the white background that 
rosettes of the same material diapered into 
delicately arabefqued folds of stony drap- 
ery 

On one side there loomed out of the gloom 
a great copper boiler supported on a hearth 
of rough Slone, and under this a flerce Are 


On SkidcFs Branch. 


25 


wfts burning, the light from which was cut 
off by the flit slab of sandstone that did duty 
as a furnace door. The tarnished surface of 
the metal boiler caught the light from the 
torches and betrayed the outline of its domed 
head and long projecting beak in reflected 
bars of dull metallic lustre. Beside the fur- 
nace and supported on a higher shelf of rock 
were two or three barrels, in which the 
^‘worms’’ or coils of pipe where the vapor is 
condensed were cooled. The tanks were 
supplied with water by a hollow log that ran 
back some distance to catch the little subter- 
ranean streamlet that trickled from one of the 
many crannies in the rocky roof. 

On the other side of the cave was a lot of half 
barrels that did duty as “mash tubs.” Part of 
them were empty, and two half naked negroes 
were measuring meal into them. A moun- 
taineer in a dirty red flmnel shirt 
stirred the fermenting contents of the 
other shift of tubs with a huge 
wooden paddle In fiont of the furnace 
three men lay dcz-ng comfortably on some 
meal bags, and another watched the “nose” 
of the “worm” from which the “singlings” or 
product of the fi st distillation was running 


26 


Oti Skidd’s Branch. 


into a wooden butt. He caught some of the 
liquid and tested it with a small copper in- 
strument from time to time, examining it criti- 
cally by the light of his torch. The men at 
work spoke little, and the dull smothered 
bubbling of the boiler, the crackling of the 
coals and the splash of the running water 
were the only sounds within the cave that 
fell on the atmosphere heavy with the min- 
gled aroma of the whisky and the tarry smell 
of the torches, save the patter of the rain at 
the entrance and the roar of the subterranean 
waters that came bursting out at the foot of 
the rocks. 

A light glimmered down one of those 
narrow passages that led to the upper series 
of chambers like a pair of stairs, and a 
few seconds later the figure of a fat negro 
was visible. He stuck his torch in a crack of 
the rocks, and disappeared only to return 
with a couple of sacks, which he deposited 
on the rock bench, where his companions 
were at work. 

“Dat’s all ob de meal, Boss,” he said, turn- 
ing to the man at the worm who seemed to be 
in charge. 

The moonshiner addressed made no reply^ 


On Skidd^s Branch, 


2T 


but drew a fresh measure of ‘'siDglings’’ and 
as he did so the light fell on the face of Con- 
nie. 

“I war pleased to 'serve dat dat war all ob de 
meal," continued the fat servitor. 

“Youd— n fool, do yer think we’re deef,"' 
said one of the recumtient figures sitting up. 

‘ Go put out that light." 

“Why, Boss, I didn’t mean no ’fense, I 
’low’d you’d like fur—" 

“Curse your ever lastin’ tongue, what tho 
bloody h—l’s th’ matter with yer? Ef yer 
don’t shut up I’ll let the juice outen yer." 

“Let the nigger alone. Bill, tain’t none of 
your business to, fool with him; he’s a talkin*^ 
to me, an’ if I kin stan’ it, you needn’t put in 
yer mouth," said Connie. 

The command was obeyed, for it was evi- 
dent that the speaker was a man not to be tri- 
fled with. 

After a few minute’s silence one of the men 
at the tubs asked : 

“How is it the Caplin’s let the meal git 
cut!" 

“Didn’t have no time to run the mill. Had 
a d— n city chpp there that says he’s perspec- 
tin’. Cap tin thinks he’s one of them d— a 


2S 


On Skidd’s Branch. 


Marshals, an’ has been shadowin’ him,” an- 
swered Bill, sittini? up and lighting his pipe. 
“It ’pears to me— it ’pears to me” — he con- 
tinued, between the draws at the cob, “that 
he mought a found less trouble than that.” 

“How’s that!” 

“F— ist,” and the speaker waved his pipe 
■^n close proximity to his jugular vein signifl- 
■cantly, 

“Your d— n right,” rej dned the other. “I’d 
ha 

But before he could finish the sentence 
a sharp report rang out on the murky 
^ir. In an instant all sprang to their feet ; 
the torches were extinguished, and the 
men, guns in hand, crowded around the en- 
trance. 

“What was that?” asked Connie of the sen- 
try. 

Before he could reply another shot was 
heard. 

“That was close to the Slew,” said the sen- 
try. 

“’Bout time the Capting war heah. I hope 
he ain’t done got in no bad luck.” 

“That’s a fact, Fatty. Bill you go down 
to the mouth and see what’s up,” said Connie 


On Skidd' s Branch. 


29 


authoritativaly. The man did as he was direct- 
ed , and the others waited speculating mean- 
while. They were not long kept in suspense, 
for, a few minutes after, Bill returned, ac- 
companied by John Amburst. 

“Well, Captain, what is it?” they asked 
hurriedly. 

“Thatd— n Darnley; he’s a Revenue feller. 
I found it out yesterday and had fixed to pink 
him last night, but the gal made a noise and 
I darn’t, I laid for him in the Big Slew, but 
his d— n horse shied jest as I fired, an’ he seed 
me an’ shot back. Gim me a rag.” 

“What I yer hurt?” 

“’Tain’t much. I got it in the arm. Here 
Connie, you tie it up, and the rest of you git 
ready to go out arter him, for if he gits away 
its up with us.” 

No sooner was the order given than the 
men busied themse’ves with its execution. 
The fires were extinguished and the nest was 
left in charge of the -negroes Half an hour 
later, six men emerged from a mysterious 
opening among the rocks, and scattered 
through the woods. 

Meanwhile, Darnley was struggling along 
through the underbrush that fringed the 


30 On Sl'idcVs Branch. 

creek, The copse into which he had plunged 
was composed of small shrubs and bushes en- 
tangled with vines. Dogwood and laurel in- 
terlaced their boughs so that in many places 
it was well-nigh impossible for him to force 
a passage except by patiently breaking away 
the obstacle, twig by twig. The water of the 
swollen streem was knee deep among the 
bushes, and the daylight faded fast. 

The portion of the creek where he now was, 
is known as “The Narrows,” and just above it 
is the “Big Eddy.” Here where the stream 
makes a sharp curve, the character of its 
left bank changes. It had been a wall of 
rock that formed with the cliff at the foot of 
which Darnley stood, a narrow canyon,with a 
little causeway of earth on either side, cov- 
ered with the tangled bushes through 
which he had passed with so much difficulty. 
Now the trend of the rock on the left was 
from the stream, and the bank widened out 
into a glade or bottom, filled with sycamores, 
birches and water hazal, which stretched back 
with a gentle slope to the hills, while the 
stream dashed its waters against a perpendic- 
• ular wall of rock on the side where Darnley 
was. 


On Skidd’ s Branch. 


31 


As he approached the eddy he could see 
this dark shiniog pool, and hear the hoarse 
gurgle of the waters as they swirled among 
the recks. 

He came to a standstill. 

Above him, on the right, the water widened 
into a pool that was now covered with float- 
ing debris, which sailed round and round as 
the waters were converted into a whirlpool by 
the friction of the tearing current that rushed 
by the foot of the cliff, and darted between 
him and the bank, scarce forty feet away, 
with the speed of a race horse, carrying on its 
tide huge logs and trees, and rolling along its 
bottom great masses of broken stone that had 
come from the ledges above. Ee knew to 
venture in this was to be swept away in an 
instant ; it would have been like trying to 
swim a mill flame, or a wier. The water was 
waist deep where he stood, and rose each mo- 
ment as the flood backed up, and the current 
was checked in the narrows below. The 
counter current was so swift that he was 
obliged to hold on to the bushes to keep his 
feet. It was impossible to turn back, for 
already the damned up flood was above the 
tops of the bushes, and a line of black water 


32 


On Skidd^s Branch. 


formed across from wall to wall of the canyon. 

It was now almost dark, and the torrents of 
rain increased as the shadows lengthened. 
The thick mist around him began to take fan 
tastic shapes, and seemed like ghosts to his 
dizzy brain. 

Still he stood, hoping vainly for aid. Life 
never seemed so dear. 

The wind moaned drearily through the 
trees and the waters chuckled hoarsely at his 
despair. At last he called for help. “Help,'’ 
came back from the woods mockingly. 

“Help !” the rocks tossed it back again in 
derision, and the waters caught it up and 
laughed at it in mad glee. 

He tried once more. 

The mocking of the elements was too 
much for him. He wept. Then he felt 
it was unmanly, and resolved to meet 
his fate more worthily. He grew calm, 
and noticed now the water rose around 
his armpits; calculating how long it 
would take to completely submerge him, 
and as the calmness of despair came he 
speculated whether he would be washed 
away by the current, or would only relax his 
grasp on the dogwood boughs when the black 


0)1 SkidcVs Branch. 


33 


water closed over his head, and as these, and 
a thousand other thoughts crowded upon his 
brain, he thought he heard a voice above the 
roar of the waters, 

“I am mad,’' he said “Yes mad/’ and his 
loud, unnatural laugh rang out above the 
booming of the waters, a piercing cry on the 
ears of the night. 


CHAPTER III. 

ON daknley’s tbail 

A few minutes after the moonshiners had 
left the nest, they stood on the rubble in 
the ravine where Amburst’s shot had so nearly 
cost Darnley his life. His horse lay drowned 
behind some of the rocks, a few feet further 
down. The poor animal had broken a pas- 
tern, and, unable to rise, had been drowned 
by the torrent in the gulley. 

“Hadn’t we better look into them things 
fust?” asked Connie, pointing to Darnley’s 
saddle-bags, that were partially visible above 
the rapid, dirty water, as the men crowded 
around their chief. 

“Well, bi’God, I like to forgot them, that’s 
a fact. Bill, go fetch me them bags.” 

With some difficulty. Bill managed to exe- 


S4 


On SkidiVs Branch. 


cute this Older, for between him and the talus 
where the horse lay, the w^ter was both deep 
and swift ; after a few minutes, however, the 
water-soaked contents of the bags were in the 
possession of the Captain. Some undercloth- 
ing and toilet articles, and a few letters were 
all that rewarded the search. The first were 
appropriated by various members of the gang, 
the gully received the second, and the third 
John Amburst busied himself with. He de- 
ciphered the meaning of the letters with evi- 
dent 3rt, for the ink had run and the words 
were blotted. 

He found sufficient to confirm his sus- 
picions as to Darnley’s connection with 
the Revenue Department, however, in the 
printed heading of one of the letters. The 
envelope which contained this was plain, and 
he was turning it over carelessly, when two 
words in a hand he knew, arrested his atten- 
tion. It was Helen’s warning, and he greeted 
the discovery with a horrid oath. He saw it 
ail now, and cursed himself for not having 
executed his design of the night before. 
Helen, also, came in for a share of all the 
oaths he could lay his tongue to. 

“The gal ain’t done no great harm, if we get 


On Skidd^s Branch. 


85 


him,” observed Connie, in reply to the last 
volley of imprecations. 

“Ain’t she?” sneered Amburst. “Well, I 
kin promise you one thing, she won’c do no 
more.” 

“I kin promise that myself,” answered 
Connie, and each looked at the other as if he 
read a hidden meaning in his words. After a 
minute Amburst led the way down the ravine 
to the Branch. 

“He n 3 ver crossed her here.” Bill looked 
at the boiling waters all covered with yellow 
foam as he spoke. He was confident no sane 
man would try to stem such a current as now 
flowed through the ford. “He must a goed 
farther up,” he added. 

“That’s what he did,” said Cor me who had 
been scrutinizing the bushes. “Look a thar 
at them elders, they’s fresh barked, and bent 
as fur as you can see.” 

“Then he must a goed fur to cross at the 
Narrer.” 

“Could he a done it?” 

“Not by a d— n sight. Look whar the 
water is; he’s ketched ’twixt theNarrers and 
th’ eddy.” 

“We’ll go up on the cliff an’ look fur him,” 


36 


On l^MdtVs Branch. 


said Amburst authoritatively, and the six 
turned into the Slew once more and moved up 
toward the Crow’s Nest. 

A few hundred feet up the ravine was a 
jagged fracture in the side of the cliff scarce 
two feet wide, and through this Amburst led 
the way. It opened into a water worn pass- 
age that wound its way through the soiled 
rock like a staircase to a sink hole on the 
plateau above. By the time that the last 
man had squeezed himself through its rocky 
portal, the Captain had groped his 
way among the dark recesses and was 
emerging among the weeds and bushes 
on the top of the plateau, a hundred feet 
above. From this point they went to the brow 
of the cliff , and crept silently along to- 
ward the Narrows, to get within gunshot of 
Darnley. 

Forced, as he was by the high water, to 
keep as close to the foot of the cliff as possible 
to get a foothold, the young man was fre- 
quently under the overhanging rock that in 
many places shelved in toward the bottom, 
and was thus out of sight of his pursuers, 
and thus concealed by rock and mist and rain 


On Skidd^ s Branch. 


3Y 


they passed him long before he was brought 
to a standstill by the swollen creek. 

“We’er clean above whar he could a got an’ 
it’s too dark to see him anyway,” said Connie 
as an hour later they stumbled among the 
loose rock in a ravine that debouched into the 
Branch, three miles above the Big Slew. 

“What you think’s become of him?” quer- 
ied Amburst. 

“He never could a crossed nowhar,” asserted 
the sentry. “ ’Cause ther ain’t no place befur 
you git to th’ eddy, an’ the water’s been too 
high to pass that ever since the rain began ; 
Jake tried it hisself.” 

“That I did,” added Jake in corroboration. 
“I reckon then, he’s drowned in the Narrars, 
Captin. That looks most likely,” and Con- 
nie went down to the creek’s bank as he 
spoke. 

“I don’t see myself, but that’s whar he must 
be; it’s too dark to find him now, anyway. 
I reckon we’d better git back an’ be out bright 
in the mornin’. Havin’ him drown’s better 
than killin’ him, anyway. How’s the crick 
here, Connie?” 

The latter, who had meanwhile examined 
the condition of the stream, called back that 


38 


On •SLidd's Branch. 


it was fordable, and his five companions had 
soon joined him in wading the swift, but here 
only waist deep waters, By the time they 
had reached the hills cn the other side it was 
quite dark, and confident that the object of 
their search was being hurried along to the 
turbid waters of the Chatter, the moonshiners 
picked their way in single file through the 
black forest, as only those who are born to 
wood craft can do. 

When Connie had promised to deliver her 
message and was gone cn his errand, Helen 
felt a sudden relief from the tension her mind 
had undergone during the morning when 
John Amburst’s stealthy footsteps across the 
room had wakened her in the darkness. She 
knew his errand to the loft, and she knew 
also how natural must be her method of de- 
feating his purpose, if she would have hia 
suspicions concerning her unaroused. Her 
woman’s wit had served her then, and she 
felt a secret satisfaction in the fact that her 
winning way was serving her now. Connie 
was her slave, fettered with chains of partly 
his own forging, ’tis true, but faithful she 
knew he would be. Through him she had held 
Amburst at bay, through him she would save 


On ShidtVs Branch. 


39 


Darcley, through him her dreams of freedom 
would be realized. It gave her infinite satis- 
faction. 

Connie had been gone an hour when the 
rain began to fall and still Darnley had not 
returned. She hnsw he would not let her 
advice go unheeded ; had it come too late? 

Noon rolled up^ and still no sign of Darn- 
ley. She tried to forget how long the time 
was seeming and busy herself with the 
household tasks she shared with Polly. Their 
simple meal was over and the two women sat 
in siknce before the fire while the rain fell in 
torrents on the old mill roof. Helen leaned 
her head against the stone fireplace wearily, 
and Polly nodded over her coarse knitting. 

At last the girl could stand it no longer ; she 
went to the door and looked out toward the 
ravine. The water in the branch, rising had 
covered half the talus at the foot of the cliff 
and the tall weeds were shaken by the current 
that poured on to the dam. As she listened 
wearily to the falling rain she started sudden- 
ly. Above the noise of the waters she heard 
a shot . To her trained ear it was distinct, 
and perhaps more audible because it was not 
unexpected. Another followed it . The girl 


40 


0)1 SkuliVs Branch. 


hesitated but an instant, then catching up her 
cloak, she gathered it around her and 
went out into the pouring rain. Having 
scrambled up the ragged path along the'^clifC 
she struggled through the dripping thickets. 

This was three or four hours bsfore Darn- 
ley had taken refuge under the shelving rock 
and was endeavoring to fin 1 a ford on the 
Branch. How little he then thought of the 
fate that awaited him in the black pool above 
the Narrows ! He seemed now to have lived 
an age since that shot was fired in the ravine. 
Each struggling step he had made among the 
tangled brushes on the stream bed was a stage 
in his journey that accompanied as it was 
with the indelible photograph fear makes on 
the mind seemed to have occupied months in 
its accomplishment. And now as he looked 
back on them all, to his d sordered brain 
their succession was inverted and the past 
was before him in a sort of perspective, 
a rough and perilous pa^h that stretched up 
to the bright time when he held Helen’s 
hand at the mill door. He felt bis body 
growing weaker. His cramped fingers locked 
on the weeds, seemed locsening, sr d he was 
content to let the waters win the fight. 


On Skidd^s Branch. 


41 


Suddeiily lie experienced a singular transi- 
tion of feeling that seemed miraculous. It 
was as though he had been touched with a 
magician's wand; and his weakness vanished . 
He had heard a voice It was not the mocking 
of his disordered brain for he recognized it, 
and his every sense was sent astir ard a&tart. 
In the very recognition there came to him a 
proof of his madness, for it was Helen's voice. 
But he answered, and he heard it again, 
Again he called ; this time the answer was 
directly opposite. 

The brave girl had risked the storm and 
the torrent for his sake. 

The thought g^ve him new life. She was 
only a little way off under the trees on the 
other side- she was there to save him. 

' He must, he would be saved. 

But how ? 

In the dim light he could see the outline of 
the tree where she stood , It was a birch, 
graceful even without its foliage, as it over- 
hung the stream Its brxnches stretched across 
the narrow band of gray that was the last 
trace of daylight. His eye followed their out- 
line, and almost mechanically, he noticed one 
that nearly spanned the stream. 


42 


On Sfcidd^s Branch. 


Like a flish the thought came to him. 
“Climb on that limb— climb on it— bend it 
down, I will catch it '' 

Helen compichended, and lost not an in- 
stant. The tree slanted so that it was with 
little diflaculty the brave girl cautiously crept 
on the limb. Foot by foot she advanced ; 
inch by inch the pliant limb bent under 
her weight and dipped its branches into the 
stream . 

Darnley moved out of the bushes slightly 
still clinging to the dogwood. The limb was 
but a foot away, and a little below him . He 
made a spring and caught the branch and the 
waters tried to wrest it from his grasp, but 
he held on, and drew himseJf up beside her. 

He was saved, and a minute after they 
stood on the sloping hill on the other side of 
the stream 

Darnley took her in his arms and neither 
spoke. The joy of one and the deliverance 
of the other were too great for words. 

“Come,” she said gently, afier a minute, 
“we are not safe here, the water is still rising, 
and already the narrow neck that connects 
this with the house must be nearly covered.” 

Slowly they groped their way through the 


On Skidd^s Branch, 


43 


darkness, guided by the roar of the dam, 
until, at last, they stood before the old mill. 

How changed was the scene ! In front, the 
narrow river, swollen by the mountain tor- 
rent, had risen until its steep banks were filled 
to the brim with a cold current that caught 
the rays of cheerful light from the mill win - 
dows, and, in spite of their struggle, carried 
them down the stream with resistless fore#*, 
to drown in the black waters. On the right 
was the mouth of the “Branch,'' now a greai 
whirl pool filled with logs, and trees, and 
other floating debris of the woods. The 
waters that poured over the dam kept up a 
constant roar, and above the din could occa- 
sionally be heard the dull plashing of the 
great logs as they washed down from the lum- 
ber camps. It was such a spring tide as the 
Chatter had not seen for many a year, and the 
old mill trembled at the waters that thundered 
through its flame and out the overflows. 

Darnley and Helen stopped a few seconds to 
listen to the rear of the mad waters, and then 
went into the house. Polly was not there, 
but a bright fire burned in the chimney, and 
its light danced out to welcome them. 
Drenched and shivering as he was, Darnley 


On SkidtVs Branch. 


44 


took pleasure in it only, because its light ena- 
bled him to see Helen’s face once more. He 
drew her before the fire, and took both her 
hands in his, and, as she looked up, her hood 
of dark cloth fell back. The rain drops in 
her auburn hair caught its color, and glistened 
like gold in the firelight. As their eyes met, 
her face grew radiant, and he read there the 
devotion that had prompted her heroism. 
Then came over him afresh the perils of the 
hour before, and he remembered with shame, 
that in his eagerness to save the life, that now 
in comparison with hers, seemed so unworthy, 
he had forgotten that which, but a few nights 
before, he had premised never to forget, and 
he felt unworthy. It m^y have been that 
Helen read his thoughts for she said simply, 

' I know that you love me, dearest,” and it 
filled his heart with a great calm. In rapture 
he clasped her to him, and a prayer of grati- 
tude went up unspoken, while outside the 
din of the waters seemed to him to modulate 
into a chord of solemn sweetness in keeping 
with the holiness of her heart. 

As Helen and Darnley, passed across the 
staging that connected Amburst’s house with 
the mill, sis shadows glided around an angle 


On Skidd^s Branch, 


45 


of the rcchs, a few hundred yards down the 
Chatter, and, as the young man opened the 
door, the light that streamed from it, brought 
both their figures in strong relief agaics’; the 
black night. 

Amburst saw them and gave a signal that 
caused his five companions to stanl as mo- 
tionless as the rocks about them. 

‘ By God, we have him now,” he whispered 
hoarsely, and then throwing his gun where it 
would not chafe his bandaged arm, he crept 
stealthily forward, followed closely by the 
others, Connie keeping but a few feet behind 
the leader. 

They advanced with the utmost cau- 
tion, picking their way* over the rough 
stones as noiselessly as though there was no 
roaring of the dam and thundering of the 
logs in the stream to drown their footfalls, 

Amburst crept up to the window and look- 
ed in. Darnley stood with his back toward 
him, in front of the fire, and Helen was in 
his arms. As she looked up in her lover’s 
face, her profile was limred with Rembrandtic 
effect. The firelight fell on her snowy throat, 
and struggled with her golden hair for per- 
mission to kiss the curves of her delicate ear, 


46 


On SkidtVs Branch. 


and then went romping away ever the grace- 
ful outlines of the lithe figure that was be- 
trayed by her tight fitting flannel dress, no'w 
that her cloak had fallen from her shoulders. 

The sight filled John Amburst with the bit- 
terest hate. 

This was the woman he loved 

Twenty years before, he had snatched her 
from her mother’s arms, in broad day-light, 
and had abducted her for the sake of a re- 
ward he had never received. For years he 
had kept her secreted, and, at last brought her 
to the mill. Then it was her loveliness stirred 
the passion blackened thing he called a heart. 
He had told her, and she had spurned and de- 
fied him, and now, there she stood in4he 
arms of the man who had it in his power to 
put him in a felon’s cell. 

The hot blood coursed through his veins, 
and his heart gave a mad leap of cruel exul- 
tation, as he thought of his revenge. 

He leveled his gun and took deliberate aim 
at both. 

Then the hammer fell, but ere the heavy 
charge of buckshot left the barrels, Connie’s 
out stretched arm had thrown up the weapon, 
and the balls buried themselves in the mill 


On Skidd' s Branch. 


47 


roof, as a cloud of dense smoke obscured the 
lovers. 


CHAPTER IV. 

ON THE WASTE OP WATERS. 

Half deafened by the report, and blinded by 
the sulphurous smoke that obscured all ob- 
jects about them, Darnley clasped Helen 
closer to his breast. The bravest arms and 
the stoutest hearts are often spell-bound by a 
sudden shock, and with the shot still ringing 
in ’his ears, he was too dazed for a moment to 
comprehend precisely what had happened. 
He knew only that Helen was there, and the 
consciousness of her presence gave him 
strength, as his mind struggled to regain its 
equipoise. He did not realiz3 the risk she 
incurred in remaining at his side, for we are 
not apt to fear for the fearless when they are 
companions in danger, and so soon as he was 
able to grasp the situation, his brain busied 
itself with plans for defense or escape, and 
with eyes that were straining to pierce the 
smoke, he retamed her in his arms with an al- 
most mechanical embrace. 

Upon Helen the report had a different 
effect. She knew too well from whence it 


48 


On ShuhVs Branch. 


came, ami her woman’s instinct told her, 
not only that it was designed she should 
share the fatal effects cf the shot, but 
it told her why also. She read in that 
heavy reverb, ration sn abandonment of the 
hellish purpose which John Amburst cher- 
ished against her, and a determination to be 
avenged for his thwarted passim wUh her 
death. She comprehended, too, that she 
might suffer a worse fate row that he had not 
been avenged, and fora moment her sense of 
woman’s weakness overwhelmed her, and 
with the awful dread that, despite all, her puri- 
ty might be sullied with a stain deeper than 
the crimson tide that coursed her veins, she 
wished that both had died in one another’s 
arms. 

Then she thought of Darn ley, and the abid- 
ing strength cf her woman’s love welled up. 
It nerved her for the struggle that she 
knew must now come, and she turned 
toward the opening door where the rude case- 
ment framed the fierce, fire-lit f ace of John 
Amburst against the black, rain-wet breast of 
the night. She felt the hate in his every 
feature, felt it rushing through her fibres. She 


On Skidd/s Branch. 


49 


knew she trembled in Darnley's arms as they 
stood waiting their fate. 

How still it seemed. 

The fire burned with a diminished light, the 
roar of the waters, the patter of the rain, and 
the booming of the ponderous logs, softened, 
faded, disappeared, and the quick, short 
breaths that came from their heaving chests 
died away, as the matted hair, the unshorn 
visage, and the wild eyes of the moonshiner 
slowly protruded from between the oaken lin- 
tels. 

He bent forward, and his eyes kindled with 
mingled hate and revenge. Then he came 
in, followed by his gang. 

The floor seemed to give no sound under 
their feet. Amburst glided rather than 
stepped, and, as he saw them motionless be- 
fore him, his rage grew hotter, and he quiv- 
ered like the air above the wheaifields under 
a blazing summer sun. 

Then his lips grew foul with curses for 
both. 

But what was that Amburst saw ? 

The stream of oaths on his lips was checked 
at the sight of a still blacker one that came 
bubbling up through the floor. 


50 


On Skidd’ s Branch. 


From every crack it rose like a seam of tar, 
and spread like a night cloud to every side. 

Tte bright coals were borne up by it, and 
hissed out their affright; and, as the darkness 
came settling down about them, the moon- 
shiner felt the icy grasp of the water around 
his ankles. 

•iVIy God, the dam has broke !” he screamed 
in terror. 

He no longer thought of the lover’s, who, 
realizing the catastrophe, were struggling up 
the rude ladder at the other end of the room ; 
nor of his panic stricken companions, cling- 
ing to each other in ffespair, at the death that 
rushed upon them. 

How could he escape the flood? 

A wall of water, waist deep, rolled through 
the open door, and tossed its foaming crest 
toward the rafters in deflince of the rival cur- 
rents that had now forced in the sashes, and 
were roaring through the windows. 

He felt the floor move. 

As the rushing torrents swept him from his 
feet, the old mill left its foundation, a crush- 
ed and broken ruin, and its fragments clung 
together in fatal fellowship on the bosom of 
the flood. 


On SkuhTs Branch. 


51 


Fighting and struggling against the black 
billows that closed over his head, he was 
borne away, and the watery thunder rumbled 
in his ears, as he saw the great black arches of 
the river. 

Then there came a fearful sinking, a fl ish 
of light, 8n agony of fear, and the swift 
current rolled the body of the Captain among 
the rocks. 

Amid the din of the wrecking flood. Darn- 
ley, unconscious of the moonshiners’ fate, 
had struggled to the loft of the mill with 
Helen in his arms, and, as the underpinning 
washed out, and the old and rotten timbers 
parted, he had clasped a portion of the grind- 
ing mass of ruin. What it was he knew not, 
but both had found a lodgement on the 
wreckage, and, clinging to the drifting frag- 
ments, were borne out on the teeming flood. 

So sudden had been the giving avay of the 
dam, and the coming of the flood, so rapid 
its fearful destruction, and so like a dream 
their half help-ess clinging to the flotsom, that 
the thread of ordinary association was bro- 
ken, and the lovers drifted out into the surg* 
ing Chatter, too dazed to realize their escape, 
too dizzy to think of consecutive events. 


52 On Shi^cVs Branch. 


Tney held on to the bolting frame,— for this 
it was that bore them up— and cluDg to each 
other, and thus they were borne on, dimly 
conscious of where they floated— intensely 
conscious of the death that stared them in 
the face. 

After a while they managed to climb up on 
their rude craft, and find a place to rest their 
feet. Part of a plate, with a bit of broken 
stanchion projecting from it was wedged in 
the frame, and they locked their arms around 
this spar, and each other, and, numbed with 
the icy water, sank into a state of semi-con- 
sciousness of their physical suffering. 

Thus they seemed, on that swift current, to 
overtake the lagging hours of the night, and 
hurry toward the cold dawn that came 
streaming out of the clouds of mist, gray and 
careworn, as if it felt the routine of another 
day a burden. 

Scarcely a word had been spoken since the 
catastrophe, for in the darkness they bad ex- 
perienced an awful, and dread expectancy of 
the death that might come, without warning, 
at any minute, that kept their minds under a 
fearful tension. Now the light, faint as it 
was, brought relief. 


On Skidd’ s Branch. 53 

They could see the dim outline of the 
steep mountains on either bank, and the 
ragged rocks that leaned far out into the 
swift current, seeking to wreck their frail 
float, and later, the growing light showed 
them where the snags lifted their water hood- 
ed heads to abet any cruelty the cold liver 
might perpetrate. 

The rain had ceased, and the clouds, reluc- • 
tantly parting, at last showed a flush of 
color, and the day revived as if from a faint. 

Darnley noticed all this mechanically, and 
then he turned: his face towards Helen, and 
their lips quivered as their eyes met. 

“Darling,” he said passionately, “Darling, 
we are saved !” 

The girl gave a low cry, and then control- 
ing herself said despairingly; “You don’t 
know the river. Listen!” 

There was something in her fees that gave 
a new meaning to a sound that had been 
growing more distinct each moment. Half 
comprehending her, he asked hoarsely, “What 
is that?” 

“The falls.” 

“God help us!” 

The words came like a groan, and drawing 


54 On Skidd's Branch. 

her closer to him, he let the feeble ray of hope 
die in his bosom. 

Then the sun came up, and the fog, rolled 
away by the soft breezes, revealed the hills 
distinct in their wildness. It was a landscape 
of desolation, yet peopled with all the weird 
caricatures of nature. 

Mocking, snow-bound faces peeped from 
among the trees; sneering prefi’es of seamy 
rock looked down from rugged parapets, 
gaunt hands b xkened or pointed in derision, 
and the skeletons of a summer’s verdure shook 
the drops from their fantastic forms under the 
moining sun Ahead the river bellied out 
and a line of drifting debris at right angles 
with the bank showed the junction of another 
tributary. 

The current here became less swift and the 
counter currents dallied with the timbers on 
which the voyagers floated. At last one 
more valiant than his fellows seized the bolt- 
ing frame and bore it in triumph toward the 
shore. 

The main current is too busy receiving 
and stowing away its additional freight from 
the Slew to miss it, and the frame is carried 
close to the bank. Both passengers found 


On Skidd’ s Branch. c5 

new life in the prospect of deliverance, and 
as the raft cornea within a few feet of the 
overhanging bushes, Darnley held Helen 
more firmly and stretched out his stiffened 
hand to grasp the twigs. 

The treacherous current chuckled exulting* 
ly as it bore them swiftly out to the stresm 
once more. Again and again this is repeated 
until his brain is weary and hope is gone. He 
closes his eyes from sheer exhaustion, and the 
current laughs in derision as it bears him 
once more toward the shore to tempt his fee- 
ble power, but he does not heed, and it slowly 
tows them to an eddy until he revives. 

The frame has stopped, but all is blank ; 
both are unconscious. 

What is this? 

A sickening consciousness of being— the far 
away sound of voices— light faces— 

“We are saved, Helen! we are saved! ’ 

Rough, hearty voices reply, and strong 
hands lifted them, but neither knew until 
hours after, who their deliverers —the hardy 
wood- choppers of a camp on the lower Chat- 
ter— were. 


56 


On SMdcVs Branch. 


A year has elapsed since the Crow’s Nest 
was destroyed by the Marshal’s posse, and 
John Amburst’s mill has not been rebuilt. 

Yet the mouth of Skidd’s Branch is to have a 
resident, for part of the year at least, and even 
now workmen are putting up a simple cot- 
tage near the site of the old house . 

Judge Gilbert’s silver locks are blown by 
the soft June breezes as he caresses the au- 
burn hair of the daughter whose image only, 
so long gladdened his lonely heart, and Ed- 
ward Darnley smiles serenely as he puffs his • 
Havanna to the hills that are to watch over 
his summer home. 


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